


Fever Dream

by nachspeise



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Author regrets nothing, Common Cold, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Improper Use of Pharmaceuticals, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachspeise/pseuds/nachspeise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archy's never been ill a day in his life. When he catches a cold, he's lucky Johnny's there to take good care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

Archy dug his knuckles into his closed eyes until he saw stars behind his lids. His head was pounding fit to burst. He took a slow breath, and opened his eyes to see Len frowning at him over his sunglasses.

“All right, Arch?”

Careful, Arch, he thought; mustn't whinge. “Got a bit of a headache. Must’ve woken up on the wrong side this morning.”

“You’ve got to take better care, Arch. I’ve told you and told you, you ain’t got nothing if you haven’t got your health.” Len reinforced this sage bit of wisdom with a scowl, and turned back to the papers on his desk.

“Right, Len,” Archy responded dutifully, accustomed to Len's diatribes. He resumed skimming over a prospective contract for a block of warehouses in South London that Len was delighting in dangling just out of reach of a prominent developer. Archy flagged a typo that granted the developer far more leeway than Len would ever allow, and pushed it across the desk to Len when the words began to swim before his eyes. He leant back, uncapped his pen, and jotted down a set of to-dos for the week ahead. It took him a moment to realize that Len was speaking to him again:

“…little shit’s home for the hols again, Arch. See to him, won’t you? I don’t want to see his face until the bloody New Year.” Archy nodded and added “Johnny” to his list. He was glad of it: Len would work himself into a temper, on edge now that Johnny was in the house, and Archy didn't want any part of it. The two of them circled each other like wary dogs, planets caught unwilling in the other’s orbit, unable simply to leave the other be. If Archy had a hand in it, he could manage them into separate wings of the house until Johnny went back to school. He’d find some way to keep Johnny occupied.

Archy sat mute as Len grumbled about Johnny’s sleeping habits (excessive, even for a boy his age), his eating habits (damned irregular), and the many wrenches he threw into the smooth-running machinery of Len’s secret operations (bloody unwelcome and a right nuisance he was, the little snot.) Archy felt the corner of his mouth twitch in spite of his best efforts to keep a straight face. He liked Johnny’s wrenches. He liked Johnny: his filthy, wicked smirks, the way he watched Archy work until the back of his neck burned, his wild laughter whenever Archy caught him making mischief. His long legs. No. Archy was fond of Johnny, in an avuncular sort of way. He scowled and tightened his grip on the pen.

Len gave him a sharp look and told him he looked like hell. Never bothered to sugarcoat it, did Len. He dismissed Archy for the night, and told him he should have a drink and a lie-down, for God's sake. Len wasn’t a sympathetic man; keeping himself healthy was another task Archy performed for Len, along with looking after his son and dispatching his enemies in grisly, creative ways. 

Archy bade Len good night and climbed the stairs to the suite of rooms Len’d set aside for him. The office, a showy little room panelled in dark wood, was always stocked with a couple of bottles of fine single malt, and Archy poured himself a tall glass, dropping in a pair of ice cubes from the bucket. He sank into the leather chair behind the desk with a deep sigh. Alone, away from Lenny and John and the imbecilic thugs and hangers-on Lenny kept around to do his bidding, he could close his eyes and breathe.

\---

Half an hour later, he was dizzy with the scotch and the headache that was still plaguing him. He rested the glass against his temple and let the condensation cool his brow. The day wouldn't settle in his head: the winding patterns of intrigue and suspicion he navigated with Len, the thorny mess of Johnny; they wouldn't lie down and be still for him to get a good look. His head was stuffed to the brim with cotton wool and his eyes ached.

Times like these, Archy turned to the familiar ritual of cleaning his gun, a sleek SIG Sauer P226 he’d liberated back when he was considering a career in the Army. The gun fit in his hand like he’d been born with it there, and Archy found the ordered tasks of stripping, cleaning and oiling it inexpressibly soothing.

He took the box of cleaning supplies down from the top of the bookshelf against the exterior wall. The smell of gun oil came up sharp and bright into his nose, beating back at the fog around his brain. He sat at his desk, laying the brushes and bottles out on the leather deskpad in size order. The room was quiet and dark, and he took a slow drink, savouring the burn of the scotch down the back of his throat. He methodically stripped the gun, ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber, then de-cocked the hammer and slipped the slide off the front of the barrel. He laid the parts down in front of him on a clean towel, and reached for a rag to wipe them down. When the worst of the carbon buildup was gone and the gun was soaking in solvent, he looked down at his hands, sighed at the mess, and poured another generous measure into his glass.

He worked the gun over with the soft-bristled brushes in the kit, his attention fading in and out as he fought to ignore the headache. The sound of the pick against the metal of the SIG’s innards grated against his ears and Archy hurried through it, clearing away the worst of the powder buildup and leaving the little nooks and crannies for next time. He cleaned and swabbed the barrel with a gentle hand to avoid scratching the bore. The SIG had been with him through thick and thin and he wouldn’t have it damaged.

He’d wiped away most of the solvent and was massaging oil into the hammer mechanism when he realized he wasn't alone.

Johnny stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame in an elegant slouch, his hands in his pockets. In his school oxford and trousers, he looked slender and young, vulnerable, but he watched Archy’s hands with half-lidded eyes. Archy looked at him silently for a moment, his hands working blindly at the shaft of the gun. He laid the frame down and cleared his throat, and Johnny’s eyes snapped up to meet his.

“Come in, John,” he said, quietly, and Johnny went to the corner and poured himself a drink. Archy turned his focus back to the gun, rubbing oil into the rough patches where the SIG was showing wear, and greasing the slide. Easier said than done when Johnny perched on the arm of his chair to watch him work. He started to reassemble the gun and fumbled with the recoil spring, his head full of static.

“Mustn’t be so clumsy, Uncle Arch,” Johnny scolded. "Here." He reached over and slipped the spring into place, his hands cool and clean over Archy’s.

He handed Archy a clean cloth to wipe the gun down and clucked at him. “Honestly, Arch, I haven’t got time to school you,” he said, in a fair approximation of Archy at his most disapproving. Archy shook his head, but it wouldn't clear. He stood up too quickly, intending to pour himself another drink, and the blood rushed to his head, blotting out his vision for a moment. He leant down, carefully bracing an arm against the desk and letting his head fall forward. The dark panelling of the study retreated as his eyes cleared. He straightened and turned unsteadily, meeting Johnny’s gaze.

Johnny stood up, laid a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Arch?” Johnny’s face was close to Archy’s; he was taller than he’d been in August, nearer to Archy's own height. Johnny laid the back of his other hand against Archy’s forehead and hissed. “You’re burning up.” Archy didn’t know what to say. He must’ve caught a cold, maybe the flu, but it’d been years since he’d been ill. He couldn't think. The blood pounded in his temples and he wondered if Johnny could feel the beat through his skull. 

There was a gleam in Johnny’s eye that Archy couldn’t identify. “Len’s been working you too hard, Arch,” Johnny murmured. “You let old Johnny take care of you, eh?” The hand on his forehead slipped back and carded through his hair and Archy had to work not to lean into the touch. He must be ill if he was looking for mothering from Johnny.

Johnny stepped back and drained the last of the scotch in his glass. Archy watched his throat bob as he swallowed, tried to look away as Johnny licked the taste off his lips. He frowned and reached up to rub his eyes again, but it was like moving through molasses. The smell of the gun oil and the scotch was overwhelming and he wanted to lie down.

Before Archy could stop him, Johnny slipped under Archy’s left arm and wound his right around his waist. He manoeuvred Archy around the desk quick as you please and out the door of the little study to the hall that led to his bedroom. He gave Archy a moment alone in the loo to wash the oil off his hands and splash a little water on his face. Archy’s reflection in the mirror was fuzzy around the edges, and he stared at himself like he was reading underwater until Johnny came back to fetch him. Johnny laughed and pulled at him again until he stood in his bedroom, wondering how he got there. He was still stuck on the feel of Johnny’s body, wiry and strong, under his arm, so Johnny’d already slipped off his right shoe and was untying the left when Archy caught up.

“I can undress myself, John,” he said.

“Oh no, Uncle Arch,” Johnny protested, nearly purring, “if I’m going to nurse you back to health, I can’t have you exerting yourself, can I?” He tapped Archy’s foot and Archy lifted it obediently so he could slip off the shoe, then let Johnny slide a cool hand up his trouser leg to slip his socks down his calves, one at a time. The short, bright scratch of Johnny’s nails against the coarse hair on his calves lit up the parts of Archy’s brain that weren’t clamouring for sleep, and he took a long, considering look down at Johnny kneeling between his legs.

As if he had read Archy’s mind, Johnny looked up at him with a dirty smirk, and winked, so brief that Archy thought he might have dreamed it. Johnny stood up slowly, sliding his hands under Archy’s suit jacket and slipping it over his shoulders, where it fell to a crumpled heap on the floor. Archy was meticulous with his things; this was his favourite suit, but he couldn't tear himself away from Johnny’s fingers on his tie, on the buttons of his shirt.

Johnny wouldn’t meet his gaze; he was looking at the sliver of Archy’s chest he was uncovering like it was the best thing he’d ever seen. His lips were parted and he took slight, shallow breaths that barely registered under the line of his tailored oxford. He reached down and pulled the tails of Archy’s shirt out of his pants, then reached for his belt. Johnny’d barely touched his skin, but Archy’s pulse was thudding in his ears like a drum. He stood rigid, hands in fists, not sure he could move to stop Johnny even if he wanted to.

The clink of the buckle was sharp and bright in the quiet bedroom. Johnny pulled slowly at the tail of the belt, so that it slid around Archy's waist like a caress. He dropped it on the floor, then stepped closer, into Archy’s space. He could smell Johnny, tobacco and expensive soap he'd nicked from Len, and he closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose. Johnny’s hands came to his chest and he spread open Archy’s shirt, reverently. His hands were cool against Archy’s skin, which was too tight and too hot and lit up like a Christmas tree everywhere Johnny’s fingers had landed. Archy forced himself to stay still, his mouth firm, although the breath stuttered in his chest and he knew Johnny could hear it.

He felt Johnny’s hand at the button of his trousers, the light, dizzying brush of Johnny’s knuckles against the line of hair leading downward from his belly button. He was half hard and dizzy with it, holding himself back like a racehorse waiting for the gun. Johnny’d done this before, loved to see how far he could push before Archy slapped him a good one, but Archy knew this was different. Johnny wasn't going to stop this time. Archy opened his eyes and saw Johnny's face haloed in the light from the bedside lamp. He shook his head to clear it, but only saw Johnny’s smile in triplicate.

“John.” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want this to end, he wanted this moment to stretch out forever, God knew he bloody wanted; but he was going to fucking drop, and Len. Len would kill him every way he knew how, and then invent some, for good measure. “John, you can’t.” Not good enough. “I… Jesus.”

Johnny stepped back, a sly little smile on his face, like he knew it couldn’t last but had gotten away with something nonetheless. He went to the dresser and rummaged around until he found a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He tossed them to Archy and then ostentatiously turned his back while Archy clumsily stripped down and changed into the pyjamas.

Johnny turned down the covers of his bed and coaxed him down under the sheets. This was wrong; Johnny’d never been gentle in his life. Archy looked up at him, tried to speak, but Johnny was still smiling that terrible, secretive smile and he was so tired. Johnny’s eyes were dark and Archy wanted to sink into them for a little while and let the world go away. Johnny tucked him in, murmured, “Stay put, Arch,” and slipped out of the room.

He was back in a minute with a little plastic cup of something sickly green. He put it to Archy's lips. “Drink it down, Arch, there’s a good lad. It’ll make you all better.” Archy swallowed it all, wincing at the cloying taste. 

Johnny leaned over and smoothed back Archy’s hair and this time Archy didn’t even bother to pretend he didn’t enjoy it. He didn't know what he thought he was doing, showing that kind of vulnerability in front of Johnny, who was so quick to catalogue weakness and file it away for later, but he couldn't help himself. He was sinking under the heavy blankets, languor stealing over his arms and legs, and the little lamp on the bedside table threw the room into deep, velvety shadow. The last thing Archy saw before Johnny turned out the light was a flash of teeth. He was asleep before Johnny left the room.

\---

Archy dreams of Johnny. It’s not the first time Johnny’s walked into a dream of his, but it is the first time Archy’s found him in his lap. He’s been dreaming of little things, coming home and making himself dinner, walking in the little park near his flat, and suddenly he's back in Len's little spare bedroom, reclining like a prince against a stack of pillows, looking up at Johnny in his lap, naked except for a pair of flannel trousers riding obscenely low on his slender hips. The room is dark except for the moonlight coming through the tall windows, which catches long lines of Johnny's skin and makes them glow. 

Archy’s flushed all over, caught in the binding folds of the duvet tangled around his legs. Johnny’s arse is a hot brand in his lap, but Archy wants him closer, wants to grind into the heavy heat and catch fire with it. Archy’s so good when he’s awake. He’s been so good. 

“Johnny,” he says, his voice unsteady. “What’re you doing in my dream?”

Johnny looks down at him, a queer sort of pleased grimace on his face. “Oh, Uncle Arch. And you’re supposed to be so clever.”

“Too clever by half to mess around with you, John. Len’d have my hide.”

“Len will never know, Arch.”

Archy huffs a laugh. “No, even Len can’t read minds.” The light from the window sharpens as a car passes by, painting the room in black and white, and Archy keeps his eyes away from the shadows, where he can see dark, heavy shapes forming and collapsing away again. With an effort, he lets himself relax into the soft pile of pillows, waiting to see where the dream will take him. Johnny is a vision before his eyes, temptation personified. 

In his dream, Archy can stare at Johnny for as long as he wants. He can reach out and trace the line of Johnny’s torso, coax a shiver out of him and catch it with his fingers. He can fit his hands around Johnny’s slender hips and hold on tight. His breath stutters in his chest. He _wants_. 

Johnny squirms in his lap, his smile a white flash in the near-dark, and Archy groans low in his throat. He rolls his hips, half-hard already, slow and deliberate, showing Johnny exactly where he was going with that kind of tease. Johnny leans down close and splays his hands over Archy’s chest, softly clenching and releasing his fingers in the coarse hair above his nipples. “God, Archy,” he breathes into Archy’s mouth, “you’d better fuck me to pieces.”

Johnny kisses him hard, lips against his hot and wet, and Archy bites back, suckling Johnny’s lower lip into his mouth and worrying at it with his teeth until it shines, cherry red and swollen in the moonlight. Archy loves Johnny’s mouth, loves the filth that pours out of it and the reprehensible ideas it gives him. He eats at Johnny’s mouth like a ripe peach. Johnny trembles, and the slight movement brings his hard-on flush against Archy’s, and shifts it away again, fast as a lightning bolt. 

Archy hisses, tightens his grip around Johnny’s hipbones, and pulls away from Johnny's mouth for a long second, panting, the muscles in his back hard with the effort. Johnny stares down at him imperiously, his pupils wide. It’s like staring down a snake. It might be Archy's dream, but Johnny is his own creature. 

Johnny looks down at Archy's cock centimetres away from his own, and thrusts forward a little, brushing their hard-ons together again, like he wants to see how it feels. Archy strains against Johnny's weight on his hips, heaving a great breath from deep in his chest. Johnny's parted lips slack, gape. He does it again, slower. A low, wet groan slips out of his throat, and he licks his lips.

Johnny leans in, his breath hot on Archy’s face, and coaxes Archy’s tongue back into his mouth with slow, dragging licks that go straight to the base of his spine. He whines as Archy licks into him with a will, pulling Johnny down onto him so that they're touching tongue to toes. Archy lets his hands roam over Johnny's slender back, down the ropy muscles of his arms, down again to his arse. He holds on tight, thrusting up a little, and groans, helpless. Archy’s been _so good_.

Johnny bites his tongue, fighting against his hold, and presses Archy down into the mattress, a heavy weight for all he’s so slim. This time he doesn’t tease: he grinds straight down onto Archy’s cock and Archy’s so fucking hard, heat sparking erratically up his spine and down his limbs. “John,” he rasps, and Johnny rewards him with a wet, filthy kiss.

Archy can’t wait any longer. He’s not going to come in his pants like a teenager: he wants to be buried in Johnny, in his mouth, up his arse, anywhere Johnny will let him. Johnny’s already there, tugging frantically at his pyjama bottoms until they’re pooled around his ankles, kicking them to the floor, then shoving Archy's flannels down his hips and slipping a hand between them to grasp at his cock. They’re both panting, the heavy breathing loud in the dark room.

Johnny's holding on to his cock like he’s wanted it for years, like he wants to memorize it top to bottom before it’s taken away. He runs his thumb over the head, smearing the precome in an agonizingly languorous circle, and pulls down the foreskin, his touch feather-light, reverent. He takes his time. Archy’s taut as a bow; he can barely stop himself from fucking into Johnny’s fist. He won’t rush this; it’s his bloody dream and he wants to enjoy it as long as he can, but Lord knew Johnny could never do things the easy way.

Johnny’s staring at his cock, intent plain on his face, and runs his free hand down Archy’s thigh, scratching lightly at the coarse hair. Archy knows where he's going long before Johnny looks up at him from between his thighs, his wet lips a breath from the head of Archy's cock. Archy can't stop him, can't move from where he lies, can only pray that he lasts long enough for everything that Johnny wants to do to him.

"I'm gonna eat you up, Uncle Arch," Johnny promises, and Archy swallows hard. Johnny closes his mouth around Archy's cock and the room goes white.

Johnny's mouth is hot and his tongue is rough like a cat's. He laves Archy's cock from base to tip and swallows down the head, drooling a little. Archy finds his hand fisted at the back of Johnny's neck, pulling sharply at the short, soft hairs at his nape. Johnny whimpers at the pain and ruts against the hard line of Archy's leg. He sucks harder, clenching his hand in a tight fist around the base of Archy's cock.

Archy nearly loses himself in the back of Johnny's throat. It's only the sharp drag of Johnny's teeth against the vein running up the bottom of his cock that jerks him back from the edge. Johnny's grinning up at him, all teeth.

"Don’t you dare, Arch," he says. Johnny slides back up Archy's body, leaving a hot trail of precome in his wake. He straddles Archy and sits tall above him, lazily fisting his cock. All that attitude, and Archy can tell that Johnny is frantic for it. He just wants to put on a show.

In his dream, Johnny doesn’t need any preparation. He guides Archy’s hand between his cheeks and Archy finds him hot and loose and dripping wet with lube. He runs a finger around Johnny’s hole, testing the warm, pliant skin, and Johnny groans straight up from his toes. Archy’s under no illusions: Johnny’s in control in this dream, but he wants to give as good as he gets. He sinks his finger to the hilt in Johnny and then pulls out slightly, feeling the warm clench of muscle suck at his finger, reluctant to release him.

Johnny grinds down on his hand and growls for more, and Archy complies, slipping in a second finger for the sheer pleasure of feeling Johnny wet and open around him. He crooks his fingers, searching for Johnny's prostate, and finds it, and Johnny collapses onto him like a broken doll. He kisses Archy; only it's more wet gasping into his open mouth than a proper kiss. Archy can't get enough air in his lungs, either. He can't stand to tease Johnny, much as he'd like to. He can't fucking wait to get inside him.

He pulls back, lines the head of his cock up with Johnny's wet hole and nudges in, just a little shallow thrust at first. It's not nearly enough, and Archy’s gagging with it. Archy wraps his hands around Johnny’s hips, digging his thumbs into the hollows between his hipbones. He pulls Johnny down on his cock and thrusts upwards, sharp, and Johnny howls. Johnny's so tight around him Archy sees stars before his eyes.

He stills for a moment, sensation overwhelming him. Johnny's long legs are splayed around him, his thighs flat against Archy's hips, and Archy raises his eyes from the join of their bodies to stare greedily at the ivory length of Johnny, sitting atop him like an idol on a pedestal. He lets his hands slide down the muscles in Johnny’s legs, working at the hard, ropy length under the coarse scratch of his leg hair. He starts to move.

He's imagined Johnny like this before, but in the dream his brain fills in the missing pieces: the birthmark low on his left hip, the soft skin at the join of his thigh and his torso where Archy's thumbs rub ceaselessly as he pulls Johnny down onto him, the hungry, desperate noises Johnny's making deep in his throat. Archy never dreamed it could be like this; never thought he could have Johnny so wet and open for him, have Johnny all to himself.

"Knew you'd be so good, Arch," Johnny's saying, and Archy changes the angle of his thrust, must brush against Johnny's prostate again, because Johnny gasps his name, stops talking at last, out of words.

He sobs a hot breath, begging, and Archy fucks up into him with a will. He wants to make Johnny come without a hand on his cock, but he can't wait, it'll have to wait for next time, the next dream. He's going to come, he's going to go off inside Johnny, going to feel Johnny clenching like a vise around him. He reaches out and wraps Johnny's hand around his own cock again, guiding it jerkily from base to tip and back again, and Johnny echoes the gesture, showing off for him.

It's too much. Archy's hands seize tight around Johnny's hipbones; he snaps his hips, once, twice, again, and Johnny shouts, coming in hot ropes over his chest. Archy’s hips stutter; he loses his rhythm in the clench of Johnny’s muscles around his cock. He comes like it's being wrung out of him, deep into Johnny, leaving bright thumbprints where his fingers press into Johnny's skin. He says Johnny’s name again and again until it loses its meaning. 

Johnny lets his head fall back, boneless, and he looks at Archy through slitted eyes, rolling his hips in a languorous circle around Archy's softening cock. The dream is fading, but Archy reaches up a hand to stroke down Johnny's spine, feeling the hard vertebrae under his fingers. He reaches the cleft of Johnny's arse just as the world goes dark.

\---

Archy woke up with a sore throat and the beginnings of a bad cough, but his fever had broken. He lay tangled in a cocoon of blankets, sweat plastering his hair to his temples and the back of his neck, and he felt as weak as a kitten, wrung out. He must’ve shed his pyjama trousers sometime in the night; he could see them crumpled on the floor by the dresser. His suit was hung neatly in the closet and he couldn't think how it got there.

He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, wincing at the morning sunlight streaming determinedly through the windows. The scotch together with whatever Johnny had given him on an empty stomach had left him with a hell of a hangover. When he raised his eyes to the nightstand he saw that Johnny'd left him a tall glass of water and a couple paracetamol. Archy must've been a right mess last night, since Johnny rarely thought that far ahead. He must have come back in after Archy fell asleep: Archy didn't remember it, didn't remember Johnny leaving at all.

He remembered leaning into Johnny's touch on his hair, and Johnny's wicked grin, and God, the dream. He hadn't had a dream like that since he was a teenager. Lucky it wasn't real; lucky only Archy knew how good it had been, because if Johnny knew, he'd never let Archy alone. 

He sat up gingerly, hissing at the ache settling in his limbs. He’d get up soon. Johnny was his responsibility for the next two weeks; it was time to be good again.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is gratefully indebted to Mithrigil and jar and feverbeats and all of the other talented authors writing Archy/Johnny in the Archive.
> 
> Johnny is 18 in this fic. I did a great deal of strange research for this, and if I weren't using Private Browsing, my Google search history would be both hilarious and disturbing.


End file.
